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Summary
Sherlock is discharged after twenty-three days. It feels like it’s been a year. Mycroft sits next to him in the black car on the drive back to Baker Street. His brother, once lean and lithe in a healthy manner, is now wisp-thin. Mycroft wonders if he’ll break again.
The car turns onto Baker Street. Sherlock shifts awkwardly in his coat, now at least two sizes too large.
“Thank you,” he mutters.
“Not at all,” Mycroft says. The car pulls to a stop and Sherlock undoes his seatbelt. Mycroft does the same. Sherlock looks at him and there’s a flame of his old contempt that Mycroft thought had been smothered by the ashes of his relapse. It’s at once both reassuring and devastating.
“You’d rather escort me inside, I presume?” Sherlock says, a bite to his tone that Mycroft hadn’t expected or hoped for. His stomach twists into a knot and it’s not just hunger.
“No.”
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